Raising Rohan
by coreyjotunn
Summary: Dag was a soldier. One of the valuable Uruk-Hai of Saruman's armies. But he had deserted, along with a wounded comrade, during the Battle of the Isen that claimed the life of Theodred, Theoden's son. Now it has been two years, and something has quite unexpectedly dropped in his lap. [Rated M for future situations.]
1. Chapter 1

_**2nd of June, by the Shire Reckoning, two years after the end of the War of the Ring. [Specifically after the death of Saruman.] **_

Rohan was so empty. But he should have expected that. There hadn't been many that returned from the war. But that was a good thing. That meant there were less people around to try and find out what the little hut was. Who lived there. Sure, he would have to deal with it sooner or later, but he would take that later. It would give Rokku enough time to get stronger. Get his legs under him. Then they could disappear, deal with the harsher weather. Dag crouched down, watching as his brother grabbed at nothing in the air. He should be moving by now. He should be walking again, barking orders. But he wasn't.

The scar that twisted across his face, all it did was make Dag remember the sickening crunch from the shield of a horselord, and then having to hold his brothers arm, to hold him up, until they could escape. When he had taken the great helm off, bits of scalp had came away, and Rokku had grunted like a crying babe. His skull had been dipped in in the back, and Dag didn't know what to do. They couldn't get back to Isengard, not with Rokku like this. So for all this time, nigh on two years, he had taken care of his brother. And the war was over, but he still didn't live yet. He could have ran out on him, easy enough. Survived well on his own. But he wasn't going to do that to his friend. Even if they weren't really brothers in anything but race, Rokku had always been like a brother to him, as the _snaga_ said a brother acted like anyways.

So every morning, it was the same. He would rise with the son, and make sure his brother ate something. Usually soup or broth. He had discovered soon after they found this hut that anything that required a lot of chewing would almost choke Rokku to death. So soup it was. He'd bathe him, change his sheets, because the big Uruk-hai would mess himself in the night most times. And then Dag would go out into the plains, looking for deer or any other animal that he would be able to bring down for food. Bring it home, and do any repairs to the house that was necessary. Try to get Rokku out of his bed, get him to walk. If he wouldn't walk, try to get him to crawl. Anything to keep him active and get him out of the bed. Then the Uruk-Hai would clean the house, check the weapons, the battered armour he had managed to save, and would finally get himself to bed after making sure Rokku was asleep.

It wasn't the life that the white wizard had imagined for his fighting Uruk-Hai, but Dag was find with his life. They hadn't died in the great battle, or the drowning. They hadn't died at the black gates with the others of their kind, and they weren't some_ snaga_ slaves deep in the mountains were they couldn't see. He'd doubt Rokku would have survived it anyways. They probably would have eaten him. Dag wouldn't lie and say the thought hadn't crossed his mind. Just eat the big one for food, and run for the mountains. And as always, he felt ashamed for the though. Whatever Rokku was now, he had protected him, saved him. They were special. They had been born from the same sire, according to the marks on their chest. They had been together since the moment they were thrown in the barracks together, and had always helped and protected one another. Dag had seen what happened to those that weren't protected, the ones that were different, and Rokku had always saved him from that.

So that was Dag's life. Take care of his brother. Scout for food. Make sure the riders didn't come. Make sure the Dunlending's weren't coming. If they did, he was never quite sure what he would do. Get Rokku out? How? Even wasting away as he was, he was still big. Maybe not as much weight on him, but he was still as tall as Dag was. And they'd have to leave everything behind. Dag firmly put the thoughts out of his mind. Tomorrow was a new day, and any problems that they had would be dealt with then and only then. Otherwise, he'd lose his mind. And if he lost his too, who would take care of Rokku?

* * *

He had been watching them for months. The skinny one barely left the bed, did nothing but babble and cry. The larger one was capable, always hunting, always repairing the house and keeping things together. He didn't know anything about them, but they would do for his purpose. At the least, they were orcs. They would eat the brat if they didn't do anything else with it, and that was find enough for him. And after they took it, he could always speak to the Kings soldiers about the little hut with Uruk-Hai. They wouldn't care if one was sick. They'd still kill it, and put all the heads on pikes. Yes. That would solve his problems well. Gods curse that bitch of a sister! She had to make him promise to Bema that he wouldn't kill her child. But she hadn't made him promise anything about it dying by another hand. And that's exactly how he was going to get away with all of this, without shaming his family any more than it already had been. Ulfwine had not partaken of the eodred to Gondor, citing his weak sister, so ravaged by the Uruk-Hai raiders, as his reasoning not to travel with the army. And then she had whelped that half breed creature, and then decided to hang onto life for until a few months ago after doing it. He had to move away with her from Meduseld, out here into these plains, away from his friends, away from the women that were all aching for a husband by now.

Instead, he had to be here. With a yowling brat and a buried sister. He could have always left her in the grass and walked away, but the creature had an uncanny habit of scenting him out. So instead, he waited. And when the big one left for the morning, like he always did, Ulfwine drug the half asleep creature his sister had borne to their little hut. A bit of rope, a couple knots, and it was tied to the door. And he was free to leave. He couldn't help but aim a mean kick at it's head as he left. Payment for all he had suffered over the past few years, caring for both it and his sister, until her untimely death. Then Ulfwine disappeared into the grass, wandering back into the general direction of Meduseld. He would finally get his own life back, and never had to worry about feeding that foul little creature again. He ignored her cries, as he always had done, already thinking about a nice cup of caffee and a pretty wench to pinch.

The simple things in life, the ones that all men of his caliber deserved.

* * *

Crying.

Wasn't Rokku. Dag knew that sound well enough by now, the guttural growl and snarl and howl as tears streamed down his face. Sometimes Rokku reminded him of the great berserkers, he was just never angry. He just cried sometimes. Shifting the deer on his shoulders, Dag drew the knife at his side and kept walking forward. If it was a child, that meant parents were near. He might have to kill people today. It was more meat, if there were few and he got the drop on them. He sat the carcass down close to the clearing he had made for their little hut. Peering through the waving strands, it looked like... it looked like a goblin. He crept forward, noticing the rope around it's neck. The little creature was trying to walk, pulling on the rope, it's face changing colors as it couldn't get enough breathe in, between the rope and the crying. Where had she even come from?

He cast about smelling the air. There was a lingering scent of manflesh. He licked his lips unconsciously. But it was growing cold, so they weren't here anymore. And he could almost bet that if he smelled the rope, it'd smell like manflesh too. In the time it had taken him to think that over, smell the air, the little girl had gotten to her feet and run forward again. With a growl, he stomped forward, grabbing her by the scruff of her neck to hold her steady. The little orc child, and now that he was close he could see that was exactly what she was, squirmed and kicked at him as he tried. Finally fed up, he cuffed her around the head into silence and stillness, cutting through the rope. He crouched down, staring into her eyes. She still trembled, still had tears in her eyes, and he was shocked at how much she looked like... well, _them_.

"Mama!"

She rubbed her eyes, looking at him. She wanted her mother, eh? Well he certainly wasn't her mother. And she'd be too much of a mouth to feed, already straining what they had. He gripped the knife uncertainly, looking at her. She was weak. Almost pathetic. No wonder the wizard had put them in the ground to get away from this weakness. He gripped the knife again, knowing that the best thing to do was kill her, here and now. She would only bring them trouble. He sighed as she crumpled to the ground, saying 'Mama' over and over again. He couldn't kill her. Not after he had spent so much time looking after Rokku. He couldn't continue to save one that was weak and kill another for being weak. Rokku had always said that if you protected something smaller than you, one day it would get big and save your life. He had used that philosophy with Dag, and when the lean Uruk-Hai had finally filled out like he was supposed to, he had saved Rokku's life by bringing him here. Reaching down, he awkwardly patted the little ones back, trying to get her to stop crying.

"I don't know where your mama is. But you can stay here, if you want."

The little girl just kept crying. The large Uruk-Hai stayed there, rubbing the little ones back, until she stopped and he noticed she was asleep. Picking her up, he took her inside and put her on his bedroll. If he put her in bed with Rokku, he might roll over on her. Standing, he rolled his shoulders, pinching the broad bridge of his nose.

What the hell had he just gotten himself into?


	2. Chapter 2

_**15th of August, by Shire Reckoning**_

Dag snarled in frustration, foot coming back, wanting to kick the little fucking runt across the hut. But he didn't. She would cry, Rokku would cry, he would feel like taking an axe to his own head just to escape the pain of it all. So instead, he took several deep breaths, picking up the bowl and placing it on the roughly sanded table. Crouching, he began to scrape up the bits of mostly raw meat the little one had dumped on the ground. She had been raised by manflesh. Maybe that meant she ate like manflesh did, cooking the meat until the juices were gone and the flesh charred. He felt a finger of worry creep into his heart. What if she didn't eat meat at all? What if younglings ate something else? He didn't particularly want her to starve to death on him. She had been eating the broths he made for Rokku easily enough, but he thought she needed something a bit more substantial, and she had knocked in in the floor, and now had the audacity to potentially starve to death on him! That would be a black mark against his abilities as a caretaker, and that just wouldn't do. He was damned decent at his job, he thought as he nodded to himself, and some runt youngling of a horselord and _snaga_ wasn't going to give him his first failure. No half rate success was he! The Uruk-Hai knew nothing but success!

Charged up, he stood swiftly, grinning fiercely. He went to take off out the door, but then he barked a laugh of derision at himself. How foolish was he. Once he had marched from the gates of Orthanc, had stood against the charge of the Horselords at the Fords of the Isen, baying and howling like a berserker, secure in the knowledge he was a superior warrior. And now, he made himself puff up over being a glorified babysitter. He shoo his head again, putting the meat back into the iron pan that had been in the small hut when he had discovered it all those years ago. With a sizzling noise, it once again began to cook the venison, Dag humming a made up tune as it did.

The little one was by his side, unnoticed, mouth moving with the hums he was making. She could remember another tall warm thing that used to sing, that smelled good and let her sit with them and sang to her. She wrapped a small pudgy arm around the tree trunk like leg next to her, mouth smiling as she made humming noises along with it. Dag looked down, surprised at first, then he hummed a little louder, trying to lead the child along on the song he was creating. To see how well she followed the noise and the tune. The runt followed well enough, letting go of his leg to clap her hands and spin around in a little circle. The heating meat popped, a small dollop of grease landing on her little hand and she stopped, gasping as she looked at it. She looked back up at the giant Uruk-Hai, moisture gathering at her eyes, a small noise coming out of her mouth.

Dag recognized that noise. He knew it well. It was the noise that came before the crying, the noise that meant someone was hurt and needed attention and he wanted to head it off at the pass immediately. Shortly after he had brought the little girl into the house, she had screamed like that. And then Rokku had _bellowed_ his tears, and the little girl had apparently thought it a game. It had continued for hours. Dag's suffering had been legendary before, but it had grown to even more epic proportions that day. He was sure that any yellowhaired bard that sung his tale wouldn't have a dry eye in the house. He quickly picked the little creature up, holding her on his hip, bouncing her as he poked at the meat with his knife. _Strange how I think of the things left behind here as mine, Dag thought,_ little one grabbing on of his heavy braids and chewing on it,_ For all I know the owners could come back one day and run us out of here, kill us._ With a snort, he picked up a piece of meat in his claws, blowing on it before offering it to Little. She took it, almost dropping it due to the heat, before chewing on it gladly. He would worry about that bridge when it came time to attack or defend across it.

But almost as if bad thoughts summoned bad things, he heard hoofbeats. Two years, and he had never once heard a single horse, let alone multiple. His eyes widening as he looked at his chimney pipe. They would see the smoke. They would know someone camped here. He had no time to hide the little one, no time to hide Rokku. The hooves were coming, and Dagûlak had no time. He stuffed Little into the bed with his brother, grabbing the armour that he stored by the door. It was ready, it was close, he had prepared and prepared and prepared for this eventuality. With practiced motions, he strapped the leather kilt around his hips, the poorly forged but strongly sewn-on iron plates clanking against each other as the pleats settled. A leather and iron plate jerking went over his upper half, a large warrior belt cinching it down tightly. The hooves sounded like they would soon run rough shod over his home. With a grim look, he stalked to the bed where his blubbering brother lay, the Little sitting between him and the wall. Dagûlak wrapped her up in a blanket, curled finger bopping her chin as she giggled.

He knew nothing of the child. Knew nothing of her parents, why she had been left here. He did not fool himself into thinking that he was her father, or even a father figure to her. One day he may have thought of her as his daughter, but it had not happened yet. But still. She was his to look after, his to care for. His responsibility, and he would be thrice-damned by ever devil in Mordor's dungeons if _**anyone**_ would hurt what was his to protect. He turned his back on both of his charges, grabbing the hastily forged sword of the Uruk-Hai from where he had stored it after using it as last springs garden hoe, his other hand closing around the haft of the halberd he had stolen from the Fords. Used to gut charging horses, he knew that it was the best chance that he had to disable any Rider that came within range. The fiercely proud Uruk-hai stepped from the door of his home, plaited hair laying down his chest as he began to think of a song to sing to rouse his rage and fire. Instead, he kept thinking about Little and Rokku. Who would feed them if he died?

* * *

Ulfwine had thought he was in the clear. Why wouldn't he have been? His sister dead, the brat rehomed, he was free to return to the Golden Hall and the Rohirrim he had once wenched and sought his pleasure alongside. But instead, he had came back home to serious men, men hardened by war and death and blood. Men who had once tipped the ale cup with him into the wee hours of the morning now were concerned with marriage, with training their new horses or themselves more and more than a few of them either married or looking to be wed. And the women! He had thought the women would still be plentiful to find, but those that had wished to settle down had already done so. He had listened to some of the old timers tell that the younger lasses were growing impertinent, following Lady Eowyn's example to be warriors instead of wives. And one could hardly tell them they had no right to do so. When the dust had cleared outside of Gondor, almost as many women of Rohan as men had laid injured or dead, blood mixed with the blood of man and orc.

And Ulfwine was branded. Not literally, and none dared say anything to his face, knowing it was grounds for a duel, but still, he was avoided. It was still all his sisters fault. If she had just... drank a potion to rid herself of the babe, or died in the making of it, then he could have went East with the King and the men of Rohan and Gondor. Instead he was remembered as a man that had stayed. And it was a hard stigma to wash away, when so many had died in those battles. Theoden King being one of them. They had rode in the company of the returned King of Gondor, the halfling Ringbearer, the White Wizard. And he had stayed home, carrying for his sister and her bastard orc whelp. Ulfwine was conveniently forgetting that others could, and would have, cared for his sister and the babe, orc get or not, to allow him to go to war. His cowardice would not let him realize these things, so he conveniently buried them under a hatred for his sister, a hatred he had taken out on her every chance he had been able to take. But now he sat here, bored and lonely in the tavern, as men discussed the fall rides. Where to go? Some said the Westfold still needed looking towards. The Wild Men were never far, and there were rumours of Uruk stragglers, those that had escaped Helm's Deep or the razing of Isengard to harm the less fortunate folk that had no way of getting Riders to them, no Riders of their own. Too many lost in the war. But the people must be protected.

So that was how Ulfwine found himself drunkenly telling one of Erkenbrand's captains about a small hut in the Westfold. He could guarantee nothing for certain, but there were rumours that two Uruk-Hai lived there, robbing and stealing and hunting the game that should have went to feed the people. And why, to live in a Rohirrim hut! How could they recolonize if the very buildings they had been forced to leave behind were now occupied by those foul creatures. Mearas knew for true or not, but orcs were said to breed from a little bit of mud and maggots. Who knew if Uruk-Hai were any different? Their strange ways could be breeding an army out in the Westfold, ready to pillage the green fields of Rohan all over again, by his oath! This also lead directly to how Ulfwine found himself riding a horse, head throbbing like the blacksmiths hammer on shoeing day, towards the middle of a small band of Riders. They wanted to see for themselves. They wanted to know.

The hungover Rohirrim gave lackluster directions towards the area he remembered. He was asked many questions, including about the sister and niece who had died of the fever, yes very sad, but had they been buried properly? If they had not of course they other riders understood, but they would gladly help him raise a burial mound if needed. He grunted non-answers, and the captain that lead the small band watched him shrewdly. Beornan was not a foolish man. He had known Ulfwine before the war, had known Elethea even more. There had been... talk between them, before the Westfold was razed. She would not have left her child, ill-gotten or not, with her brother. And he likewise felt that Ulfwine would have not cared for his niece any more than necessary. There was just... there was something very strange about the story. If the rumours had been known for so long, why had Ulfwine waited to tell them? He had not mentioned anything until he had begun to be set on the outside of their circles, had not seemed put out by the death of either of his kinsmen, and it bothered the Captain. Ulfwine and Elethea still had family in the area, and he had quietly sent a Rider ahead to gather what information that he could about the time of the siblings and child while here.

Shortly before dawn on the second day, Wystan found him. There was conflicting stories. There had been rumours of Uruk-Hai in the area, but only one. Locals had been so worried with getting crops in the ground that they had ignored the threat. It was ever the way of Rohan to not let the storm covering the mountains to worry the grass on the plain. From what hunters had told Wystan, he had a clearly defined territory. A large circle, never leaving more than a few miles from whatever was in the center, and he didn't take much in the way of food. They had shrugged at the rider, citing that their needs to feed their own families and take care of their own crops outweighed the need to hunt one lonely Uruk. As for Ulfwine and his family, darker rumours abounded.

A sick sister. One that could have been easily cared for, but allowed to waste away and die. A brother that said he was too poor to build a mound, choosing to raise a stone cairn over her instead. A rather sloppily raised one, if their indignation was anything to go by. Distant cousins had taken care of their relation, moving her into a small mound on some low hills beside a river. It stung Captain Beornan's sense of duty that a brother would not even take the time to properly see his sister off to the afterlife and the halls of their Ancestors. But what of the child? That was his true question. And that was where Wystan revealed a cold trail. The relatives had stated that no youngling had resided in the cairn with the mother, and they had not seen hide nor hair of Elethea's daughter since her death. The only information that they could give Wystan was that the daughters name was Daralis, and that she did not speak. No one knew if it was an affliction or if she just chose not to, but it was known. The Captain bid his rider keep quiet, but to also keep an eye on the shifty Ulfwine. Something stunk in the Westfold, and it was not the horse manure.

Eventually, they rounded a softly sloped hill in the early midday, and Beornan was amused by how... homey it all looked. There was a garden to the side, the rows a bit haphazard and drifting, but easily recognizable as what it was. A few hides stood on tanning racks by the door, a well-worn stool sitting close by. Smoke even curled lazily from the chimney. It was an almost ideal Rohirrim cabin, something that was a welcome sight after the War of the Ring. His men rode forward, the hooves of their mounts pounding the plains. Beornan realized that that was the only thing missing from making this a perfect Rohirrim homestead. Horses. There were none in the back paddock. Something still did not feel right about any of this.

And then it stepped from behind the door coverings.

It was taller than a normal man, probably standing closer to seven feet tall in its bare feet than six feet. The creatures hide was a motley mix of black and dark green, silver scars standing out brightly against the skin. Iron plate sewn leather armour covered it from neck to knee, rusted and dented but well-maintained. Beornan flushed red at the sight of the long halberd held in one hand, knowing the vicious gutting hook on the back of the pole was meant for the mounts the men rode. The Uruk had been prepared. Waiting for this day. But did that mean there were more of them? Was he the only one? The Captain knew his Marshal would want to know. The King would also be interested.

Calling out in the tongue of the Eorlingas, Beornan twirled his spear, preparing to use the blunt end as a club.

_"Take him alive for questioning! Harm if you must, but take him alive!" _

With grim purpose, the Riders bore down on the Uruk, none noticing the little girl standing in the doorway of the home, watching the plunging riders with wide eyes.


End file.
